Reunion
by flootzavut
Summary: Post NFA stories, Spike POV, charting the renewal of their relationship. As with After: Life, because FFN is being a pain, it's easier to post this series of one shots as a single story with multiple chapters.
1. Reprise

_It was as if something that'd been wrong and out of kilter for so long had clicked back into place -_ snick _\- he could almost hear it._

Sometime after the events of Not Fade Away, Buffy and Spike finally reunite and rekindle their friendship.

* * *

 _ **Reprise**_

* * *

Spike hadn't smoked in months, but he'd gone through half a pack of ciggies just trying not to go bonkers, knowing she was in the building, hoping desperately she'd want to see him, would come meet him like he'd suggested. Hoping Peaches didn't talk her out of it; worrying she just might not care as much as he hoped.

Eventually he heard the doors behind him open, heard a familiar voice say his name in a tone of disbelief, but he was still turning to greet her when the blur of pink and blonde bore down on him and the air was knocked out of his lungs by a small but forceful hurricane of a woman pounding on his chest. He had barely enough time and presence of mind to drop his fag-end in the bin before it damaged anyone.

She was muttering something under her breath. It took him a moment to decipher her words, and when he did, his heart sank a little.

"I hate you, I hate you, you complete _asshole_."

He hadn't given a whole lot of thought to how a reunion with Buffy might go - hadn't dared to, in truth - but the few times he had let himself imagine it, he'd dreamed of something a tiny bit more positive than this. He stood there and took it, deciding any attempt to make a grab for her wrists or hands would be foolish and almost certainly unsuccessful, and braced himself to stay upright under the onslaught.

If she needed to throttle him, well... he understood the impulse.

Eventually she quieted, the fists pummelling him going from 'Oh sweet Jesus, Slayer, _mercy_ ' to mere thumps. Then her hands wound into his shirt instead, and to his surprise he realised the name calling hadn't just stopped; it'd turned into broken sobs.

He tentatively patted her back, and when she didn't hit him again (or try to stake him), he gained confidence, wrapped his arms more firmly around her and pressed his face into her hair. God, how he'd missed her. He hadn't realised exactly how much, hadn't understood the depth of the ache till it was eased, till suddenly here she was and he could relax into the feel of her, the sweet, simple truth of her presence. It was as if something that'd been wrong and out of kilter for so long had clicked back into place - _snick_ \- he could almost hear it.

He didn't have a clue, not a fucking Scooby Doo, what she wanted from him, and he sure as shit didn't have a right to hope for anything (though it didn't stop him from hoping anyway - love's bitch and all that, a fool to the last), but just to see her warm and alive, to hold her close and breathe in her scent... it was good, it was (almost) enough, it was far more than he expected or deserved, and it was like coming home.

They stood there, wrapped in each other, and time seemed to stop. When her death grip finally loosened, he would swear she'd been holding on to him forever and not nearly long enough.

She looked up at him, eyes and nose red, cheeks wet and blotchy and stained with mascara, and he grinned, because she was Buffy and she was beautiful even when she looked like a sunburned panda. He hadn't thought he'd ever see her again. He was so glad to be wrong. He was giddy with it.

"You bastard, you stupid bastard. You let me think you were dead." Her wobbly but wide smile completely undermined the insult.

"I _was_ dead," he offered sheepishly. "And then I was a ghost, and then-"

"And then would've been the time to come find me and let me know you were alive so I could stop grieving and kick your ass instead."

He smirked. "That still on offer?"

She narrowed her eyes at him, trying to look all serious and Slayer and stern, and failing horribly and wonderfully at it. "Don't tempt me."

"Promises, promises..." His own grin grew wider. She'd missed him - she'd grieved for him. She cared. _You lucky sod. Do_ not _screw this up._

Her gaze roamed over his face, as if she was checking he was really here - as if she was just as incredulous, just as hungry for his presence as he was for hers.

He didn't dare read too much into it, but still; seeing her this bloody happy to see him was... it was _magic_.

Eventually she wiped her cheeks, set her jaw, and pulled herself up to her full height. (Such as it was - he'd forgotten how tiny she was, how neatly she fit against him; she had so much personality and strength, it was easy to forget she was just a slip of a thing.) He got the impression she was gathering herself up for something important.

"So," she said eventually.

"So."

She chewed her lip. Suddenly she'd gone all serious again, except this time it wasn't a fake attempt at being cross with him but genuine fear and uncertainty. "I wondered... I wanted to know why..."

He closed his eyes for a moment, unable to bear the tears he saw gathering in hers. He couldn't fool himself; he knew exactly what she was asking.

Part of him wanted to give her some better reason than any of the ones he'd come up with in the long months he'd been here in LA rather than racing off around the world to wherever she was; a really _good_ reason, even if he made it up on the spot. He'd come up with so many reasons and excuses and half-arsed rationales, and he'd been so torn. But Buffy of all people... she deserved the truth.

"I was scared." The words came out in a quiet rush, now he'd decided to say them. "Thought I'd die a big damn hero, make you proud. Weren't expectin' to get dragged back. Wanted to see you, but didn't want..." He shrugged a shoulder uncomfortably. She deserved his honesty, but it still wasn't easy to give. Wasn't easy to show this vulnerability. "Wanted you to be able to... move on. Remember me for the good stuff. Didn't want to bollocks it all up like I'm bound to."

 _Or give you a reason to admit you don't really love me_. Okay, so maybe what he was telling her wasn't the whole, unvarnished truth, but he was weak. He wanted to hold on to those three precious words a little longer.

She frowned. "You did die a hero. You did make me proud. That doesn't mean I didn't miss you, you gigantic idiot."

"But-" He shrugged again. "I wanted... I didn't want to bugger up your life. Wanted you to have a bit of, you know... normality."

"Oh my God, you've spent way too much time with Angel, Spike. Listen to yourself, it's embarrassing." She shook her head, her renewed smile both exasperated and fond. "I could stake you."

"If anyone's ever going to, I'd want it to be you," he admitted softly. It was probably a bit weird, them talking about her killing him when she'd just pummelled him for not telling her he was alive, but they'd never exactly had a normal relationship.

And if he had to toddle off this mortal coil, he reckoned there'd be much worse ways to go than at her hand. Dusted by a Slayer - and not just any Slayer, either, but _the_ Slayer: the survivor, the one who'd died twice and lived to tell the tale, who'd saved the world, a lot; the one who'd looked at the rules and said screw it, stuck two fingers up at countless generations of men being in charge, and changed _everything_.

He couldn't hope for a better death.

She was still giving him a look that was fairly evenly split between pride and 'You are a complete pillock'.

(Not that he'd ever heard Buffy say the word 'pillock', but if she knew what it meant, he was sure she'd happily use it on him. Pillock. Plonker. Berk. For starters.)

"I don't plan on killing you any time soon."

Her expression suggested she wasn't above ruling it out as a possibility for the future, but he'd earned that, in all fairness.

"Good to know, pet." He looked away for a moment, embarrassed, happy, and all round confused by this entire conversation. He wanted... God, he wanted so much, but he'd settle gratefully for whatever crumbs she was willing and able to give. He had no idea how much that would be, but now she was back in his life, he knew with painful certainty he'd sacrifice nigh on anything to keep her a part of it, however small a part of hers he was.

"You are such a moron."

He gave her his patented head tilt, letting his tongue curl up behind his teeth and his mouth curve into a cheeky grin he knew would both infuriate and amuse her. "So I've been told."

She smiled, shook her head again with a long-suffering sigh, and lifted a hand to muss his curls.

His breath caught in his throat and his eyes slipped closed for a second, her casual affection catching him unawares and unprepared. He hadn't ever got used to it those last weeks and months, and that'd been ages ago now. Not just used to her touching him with affection, but used to her touching him at all, to having been forgiven and accepted. _Don't cry, you great ponce_.

Her fingers slid down to his cheek, and then she was stepping in closer to his body and going up on tiptoe, and he blinked in disbelief as he realised what she was up to.

It was soft and chaste, he'd had more passionate kisses from a friendly puppy, but it was sweet and honest and real. She hadn't kissed him like that since Glory, since he'd let himself be pounded into pulp rather than betray her and Dawn. It had nothing in common with the sex (or violence) that'd characterised the last time they'd kissed, and everything to do with the strange and wonderful intimacy they'd somehow found their last year in Sunnyhell.

He made a wobbly, achey sound, one he hadn't known he was capable of, and felt her smile against his mouth. Oh God, he was done for.

She pulled away, and he pressed his lips together, trying to capture it, tuck the memory away somewhere safe. Just in case. Just in case it was all he'd ever get. He'd remember it forever if he had his way.

When he finally managed to open his eyes again, she was looking up at him, all eager and expectant. He hadn't the foggiest _what_ she expected...

"God, I missed you," he breathed.

She smiled, one of those bright, wide, delighted-little-girl smiles he'd seen only a handful of times before, and had prompted even more rarely. The sort of smile that felt like she'd given him a gift.

Her thumb traced over his cheekbone, then he glanced down, startled, when her other hand tangled in his.

"Let's go have some dinner. Talk." Her voice was gentle and coaxing, as if she couldn't just click her fingers and have him come running.

He still couldn't read her expression, still wasn't sure what this meant, but it seemed she wanted back him in her life. Which, whatever it meant, was a good deal more than he deserved. He grinned down at her, wound his fingers more tightly into hers, and let her lead him out into the warm Los Angeles night.

 _~ fin ~_


	2. Sleeping Arrangements

The first time it happened, he thought he was dreaming...

* * *

 _ **Sleeping Arrangements**_

* * *

Nothing has been said - and she hasn't kissed him again - but she's taken to creeping into Spike's room when he's asleep and crawling into bed with him. Not that he stays asleep; she's quiet and careful, but he's a vampire. More to the point, he's Spike and she's Buffy. He'd never sleep through her appearances.

He doesn't mind. He's never slept so well, before or since, as when he was curled around a sleeping Buffy, but he'd been convinced it was a privilege he'd said goodbye to a long time ago. It wasn't as if she'd often slept over even when they were shagging on the regular.

It reminds him of those nights, nights that seem so long ago now, in the basement of Revello Drive, before his world had (sort of) ended. Just a couple of nights, a stolen moment - not something he'd dared hope for at the time, let alone expected to happen again.

A lonely night in a deserted house when she'd been desperate, exhausted, falling apart, that was one thing. In her own home? When she had other options, better options? He never thought she'd choose him to be her safe place instead of her dark place. He'd been astounded she trusted him this way - still is. Her compassion amazes him. Her kindness disarms him.

Still, that'd been different, impending apocalypse and all. It'd been outside the natural order of things, a little taste of heaven before they descended into hell. A taste he'd never expected to experience even one more time.

He isn't sure what it means now, her slipping into his arms and snuggling in to him, but he doesn't dare ask. If he asks, it might stop, and he can't do anything that might stop this happening.

The first time it happened, in this unusually non-apocalyptic setting, he was stiff (in all possible senses of the word) and uncomfortable, afraid to even breathe in case it sent her away. Had lain there wondering if he was dreaming, or maybe just losing his marbles again. Hadn't been able to relax, never mind sleep... and hadn't cared.

Weird and uncomfortable as it'd been, as little rest as he'd had, he was thrilled, ecstatic. He'd lie awake for hours and hours if it meant he got to have Buffy in his arms.

When it happened again, when he contemplated the possibility it might be more than a strange one-off, he'd briefly considered wearing something besides a smile to bed, something he's seldom done since he was a prim and proper Victorian gent.

(There'd been one other time since he'd known her, one anomaly; those same nights in a cold basement with a small army of slayerettes a short flight of stairs away.

While he's never been shy about his body, if anything is rather proud of how it tends to attract all kinds of positive attention, he didn't especially want to wander around in the altogether with a houseful of abnormally strong hormone bombs as potential witnesses, thank you so very much.

Even then though, it'd been jeans and a t-shirt, not underwear or, worse, pyjamas. He has _standards_.)

But she'd known the first time she came to him here that he usually sleeps naked, and she'd come anyway, come back afterwards despite it. She doesn't seem to mind, or to care that his body reacts so predictably to her presence. The impetus to change the habit of several lifetimes has come and gone.

Besides anything else, he's scared sleeping in something besides his skin would be too much of an acknowledgement of what's happening, and if he acknowledges it, if they acknowledge it, maybe they'll have to talk about it, and he fears the result of that would be that it would stop happening, and... he really just _can't_ , okay? If she decides to stay away, that it's not right, he'll live, but he's not going to voluntarily do something to endanger it. He got a soul, he didn't turn into some kind of flawless Saint. He's still a man.

(Or at least, still a vampire, which doesn't exactly give him more self-control or better morals.)

His nakedness hadn't stopped her nuzzling into his chest with a noise that sounded like relief, or wrapping an arm around his waist so firm and possessive, and, well, it was bloody marvellous, bordering on miraculous.

As it happened more and more often, he got used to it (as much as he's ever likely to, anyway), and her soft, warm little self folded trustingly into his chest has once again become something that makes him sleep better and more deeply.

Sometimes they'll lie awake, and she'll study his face in the half light. He never knows what she's looking for, what she expects or hopes to find, nor whether she ever finds it. He doesn't mind that, either. Tacit permission to stare at her, drink her in, absorb her presence? _Bloody well count me in_.

He still can't quite believe what's happening, can't decide if it's reality or some strange fever dream brought on by too much wishful thinking... but hey, who cares? He's been much, much worse places both inside and outside his head, and while he's sure no one's ever going to call him wise, he does have the sense not to turn something so wonderful down just because he's not sure what it means and isn't entirely convinced it's real.

One of these days, they'll probably have to have a little chat, they'll have to discuss how more afternoons than not she comes in for a nap and a cuddle. But in the meantime, he just pulls her closer, listens to her quiet breathing and lets it lull him back to sleep.

 _~ fin ~_


End file.
